


Artistic License

by Emsiecat



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Thorin Remains in The Shire, Dwarves in the Shire, Family Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Rain, Uncle Bilbo Baggins, Uncle Thorin, parentshield
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 20:03:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18611545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emsiecat/pseuds/Emsiecat
Summary: As a rainy day puts paid to their blackberry picking plans, Frodo Baggins finds a unique use for his dwarven uncle's footwear.





	Artistic License

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pangur-Pangur](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Pangur-Pangur).



> Back in 2015 the keen eyed HiddenKitty made an observation on tumblr regarding Thorin's boots: the pattern on the toecaps look remarkably like a friendly little face! ( https://ahiddenkitty.tumblr.com/post/135042192543/whilst-looking-up-reference-for-thorins-boots-i )
> 
> The lovely Pangur-Pangur was quick to reply that she'd love to see art or a fic that included this detail, perhaps with a certain little hobbit nephew using said boots as an impromptu stamp! 
> 
> Inspiration struck and so I came up with this little ficlet and posted it on tumblr. I'd forgotten about it until rifling through my archive just now and thought folks here on AO3 might like to read it as well.

Frodo huffed and sighed and frowned, staring out of the window with such a pitiful expression of childish petulance that one had to wonder if some grievous wrong had been committed against the young fellow.

Well, in a way one had…

It was raining. Not the light, warm, drizzly stuff that made you feel cosy and was fun to sneak out to play in either, oh no. This rain was heavy, fat droplets, thrashing the green hills around Bag End and turning all the little paths into mud. Cold and uncomfortable was this rain; complete with a gusting wind and foreboding grey clouds rolling across the round section of sky that Frodo could see from his uncle’s window in a seemingly endless blanket.

And Frodo was _bored!_

_They promised we’d go out and pick blackberries today, so we could make jam. Now this silly rain has come and Uncle Bilbo and Uncle Thorin won’t even consider it!_

It wasn’t as if he could even try and wheedle Fíli or Kíli into taking him out in the foul weather; they were off to Ered Luin in order to visit their mother.

Lower lip thrust out in a sad little pout, Frodo glowered out of the window one more time before sticking his tongue out at the stupid rain, then turned away in order to find something which may occupy his time.

Bilbo was a fine uncle and guardian to the young fauntling, but he did have the unfortunate habit of becoming terribly distracted once he got writing. Frodo knew for certain, his keen ears twitching as he picked up the sound of a scratching quill in the other room, that Bilbo was currently lost to the real world. He would be deep in his own mind, or else in the maps and scraps of parchment which surrounded him when he was at his desk, writing no doubt, the account of his adventure some years ago.

Frodo didn’t even entertain the idea of interrupting him, he didn’t like to. Bilbo always looked so animated and happy when he wrote and Frodo could appreciate that peace even at so young an age, he’d hate to disturb him.

No good asking Uncle Thorin either… Frodo turned to see the dwarf was sprawled out in Bilbo’s favourite armchair, legs dangling over one arm rest as he dozed peacefully by the fire; a book he’d been reading lay forgotten resting on his chest.

He supposed he could sneak out by himself… the blackberry bushes weren’t too far away, and Frodo liked the mud…

Frodo got as far as the front door, eyes guiltily cast to the floor as he considered leaving without telling his uncles, when he noticed them.

It was a funny thing about dwarves, that they wore things on their feet to cover them… ‘boots’ they called them, and though Bilbo often rolled his eyes at the presence of them in his smial: (“Great, dirty, clomping things” he often complained). Frodo found them quite interesting.

Thorin’s were in their place by the front door (Bilbo put his foot down at letting any of his dwarvish friends or relatives wear them inside), and Frodo stayed his rush to sneak out into the rain in order to admire them for a moment.

True, they had a tendency to become caked in mud when worn in weather like this, but for the most part they were quite nice things. Dark leather and fur, with dwarvish decoration all over them. He’d never really looked at them closely before now…

He wondered what the decoration meant, if it meant anything at all of course… it did remind him of something though… Suddenly Frodo clapped a hand to his mouth in order to stifle an abrupt fit of giggles.

It looked like a face! Thorin’s boots had little smiley faces on the toe caps!

Suddenly, leaving the smial didn’t seem half so desirable as before in light of this discovery and casting a furtive glance back at Thorin to make sure he was still fast asleep, Frodo hefted one of the (mercifully clean) boots into his arms and tottered off with it.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo was quite aware that he had a tendency to become lost in work, thank you very much. He was not so stubborn minded that he’d argue this point; not when he’d been told it by many a hobbit and dwarf before.

However, Bilbo was rather surprised that he hadn’t noticed whichever rapscallion in his home had decided to sneak in and steal a sheaf of papers and a bottle of ink and brush from under his very nose.

Wasn’t he supposed to be the burglar here?

Grumbling as he stood and stretched the kinks from his back, the hobbit tapped his foot and folded his arms, giving the study one last look over just in case he’d simply overlooked his belongings. No, definitely gone.

Sighing, and trying to keep any hint of humour from his expression, Bilbo shuffled out of the study and into the parlour, only to have to bite his tongue in order to keep from laughing and thus startling his young charge.

Frodo was knelt upon the wooden floor, a look of deep concentration on his face as he slathered a brush dipped in Bilbo’s ink over the toecap of Thorin’s boot. He then carefully set aside the brush and heaved the heavy footwear up over some of Bilbo’s ill-gotten paper, pausing only to line the boot up correctly before pressing down with it firmly.

Frodo pulled the boot away with a soft cry of triumph and a wide, gap toothed grin, before repeating the process twice more.

That done, Frodo set aside the large boot and settled himself comfortably on his belly before the paper, lazily kicking his calves in the air as he began to add details to the impromptu stamps with his set of paints, his tongue caught between his teeth as he worked.

The fauntling added unmistakable hair and eye colour to the three stamped patterns, and Bilbo began to see them for what they were.

Unable to contain his mirth any longer, the older hobbit simply elected to try to muffle the sound with his fist, one hand thumping silently against the wall with his effort to stop himself from making any sound. Thorin was sleeping after all.

 

* * *

 

He woke to the sound of a muted thump, and the soft, breathy snatches of stifled laughter.

Frowning, eyes still closed, Thorin wondered what in Arda was going on and so opened his eyes to blink owlishly at the ceiling. He honestly hadn’t meant to fall asleep; he’d been trying to find a good story to entertain Frodo with when he’d seen the poor lads’ upset over the bad weather and their ruined plans for the day.

However, the fire had been so warm, and their home so peaceful, that Thorin had drifted off without even realising it and now…

Thorin pushed himself up onto his elbows and turned his head to see what had clearly amused his husband so much, he’d know that laugh anywhere.

Well… at least Frodo had found a way to amuse himself, was Thorin’s only thought as a small part of him despaired at the sight of one of his favourite boots.

Ink completely covered the toecap, stark against the muted colour of the leather, and Frodo now lay, humming a jolly tune to himself as he painted in the details of what could only be a picture of himself, Bilbo, and Thorin together in the sunshine picking blackberries.

He had to hand it to the lad… it was quite a creative use for his boot, and he hadn’t quite noticed before just how endearing the pattern looked.


End file.
